


singing hymns to the overflow

by XellyChan



Series: oversold no string puppetshow [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Oral Fixation, improper use of corpse piles, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:11:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5844640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XellyChan/pseuds/XellyChan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He bites his knuckles through the cloth and sucks in stagnant air choked with violence. He curls his tongue over his teeth, tastes iron over fuzzy numbness and shifting sores, traces it all back to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	singing hymns to the overflow

**Author's Note:**

> i had an idea. then i lost it. but wade is my pretty wife, so i tried anyway.

He bites his knuckles through the cloth and sucks in stagnant air choked with violence. He curls his tongue over his teeth, tastes iron over fuzzy numbness and shifting sores, traces it all back to himself. 

 

Wade hums, the noise yellow and yellow and yellow and white no more, he's got rid of that part of himself that was not himself and is mostly alone. 

 

The echo clangs in his head where the empty space seals over itself. 

 

Leather and cloth and Kevlar and spandex and his jaw creak and he hums and he bites and he idles in the fuzzy numbness, tasting iron and violence and stagnant reality. 

 

He doesn't know where he is in the timeline and when he asks, slurping around his fingers, sloppy and chewed and slick with red yellow white saliva, the severed head sitting between his ankles stares with eyes rolled back. Wade thinks that's fair, one severed head to another is no different on his time scale, and he wouldn't talk to him either. 

 

Wade goes back to chewing his fingers and humming, listening very carefully for his continuity, the approximation of working thought lines. 

 

Yellow interlaces with the rumble of his humming into something like a tune. Noisy, discordant, a cacophony of conflicting sound, dotted with raised voices overlapping each other then fading out like the ebb and flow of a golden ocean cresting into storm wrecked tides and breaking against a jagged toothed shore. It makes his humming taste funny, so Wade giggles and hums louder, lungs stretched wide, jaws clenching tight, the vibration passing from his knuckles to his elbow and buzzing there until his attention bleeds away. 

 

He slumps back and stares at the ceiling raftered, all rust and opaque glass, head cushioned on cooling meat in Kevlar and cloth and fatigues at just the right angle to support his neck and look at an orange street lit sky. There are no clouds, only one star, and the sky is matte and a color he doesn't have a crayon for. 

 

He stops gnawing on his knuckles to stare, but his eyes cast to the side to the corpse white hand by his cheek. “I have a crayon for that.” He says, blinking down at the severed head. “But it doesn't come out right even if the paper is black. I threw it away because of that but white says it threw me away.”

 

Wade nods agreeably, wet fingers waggling off to the side, sticky shiny strings glimmering there then breaking away. “He's mad at me, you know. Which him, I don't know, but he's mad. Probably. Unless he's not. Maybe he's proud. Which him, though?” He hums, and cozies down, nudging the head with his toe. “I hope he's proud,” says Wade.

 

“Because I'm really not good at anything besides this.” He gestures expansively, then sticks his fingers back in his mouth and tucks his chin against his chest, knees scooping up so he can hug his shins with his free arm. “I don't mind, really, it's fun even when it’s  _ not, and I'm really really good at it. _ And i don't think i can do anything else. Not right, at least, and i don't remember who, but someone told me if i can't do anything right, don't do it all. But i can do this. But if he doesn't think it's a good thing to be good at, then I dunno how to make him proud. Which him? I dunno.”

 

“Move on already,” complains the head. “What about her?”

 

Her? Wade thinks. 

 

“Her?” Wade asks, leaning forward to peer at the head, knee guards digging into his ribs. “Which her?”

 

The head is silent. Something with a stubby body scuttles around its eye socket. 

 

He pokes its nose, and taps his feet impatiently. “Which her?” He says again, working his jaw over his knuckles. “Sandy, Nessa, Hope, Terry, Ellie, Death? Those hers? Maybe. She'd be upset, probably. Or she wouldn't care. Which her? I dunno. I can't remember.”

 

His eyes drift, and Wade frowns vacantly at a red stain. 

 

Suddenly he feels naked, stripped and vulnerable. And cold. He feels cold, like ice is packed into the hollow of his stomach, freezing up all his other still warm soft parts. He sucks anxiously at his fingers, whining piteously as he tucks himself back up. He doesn't want to think about hims or hers or thems.

 

The yellow peeks up in the corner of his eye and sighs disparagingly. It feels muffled and thick in his skull and makes his teeth itch. He scratches at them, shooing yellow out of the corner of his mouth, uncaring of the trail of spit slopping down his chin. He doesn't want to think, his brain feels sodden red and sharp and sinuous. 

 

“Icky,” says the yellow, corners folding like damp cardboard.

 

“Icky,” Wade agrees, scrunching his nose. 

 

The word peels apart in the air, curling like skin, translucent, more liquid than smoke the way it disperses around the last syllable. Wade's eyes flicker to it, unfocused. The humming comes back, waves and tides, and he is immaterial, steam and vaporized atoms where his spine detaches at his lower back, the part of him that wants to bite and lash out and carve up red and living things quails and throbs like an exposed nerve. It jangles at him even as far away as he is, so he clenches his teeth, ignores the pull of his left brain, rides the surf and the roar into the mucky, scarred over quiet.

 

“Wade,” says the head.

 

“There he goes,  _ again _ .” says yellow. “What a crock.”

 

“Shhh,” says Wade. “ _ Shhhhh.  _ Just give me a minute-- can’t you do that, just one minute, N--”

 

His fingers are cold. 

 

He breaks off. The humming breaks off. Yellow froth breaks apart on cracked and stained cement, and Wade is awake, and his costume is torn, and there is bits of pink stuff and hair and bone splattered on his boot toes, and coffin liquor sludging down his back. 

 

“Huh,” he says.    


End file.
